


The Woman of a Thousand Summers

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She does not sneer at Aegon, but rather regards him with cool challenge, a Queen in every way. The thick, auburn fall of her hair clothes her almost as completely as a shift would, covering her from shoulder to hip and parting over the tops of her thighs to brush the saddle beneath them.</p>
<p>
  <i>Based on the legend of Lady Godiva's ride.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman of a Thousand Summers

He’d expected it was an empty threat.

He shouldn’t have. Since they were children, Jon’s known that Sansa is almost always good on her word. He’d learned never to doubt her when she said she would accomplish something, for she always did, and certainly all of her siblings could count on getting a disapproving earful every time she vowed to them, “I’m telling mother.” 

Aegon hadn’t known that about her, though. The Sansa he thought he’d married was soft and sweet, her dulcet words and biddable manner hiding the steel within. He may have had cause to learn some small bit about the strength of her will in the scant moons since they’d wed, but he doesn’t _know_ Sansa, not truly. Aegon may be Jon’s brother now, but Sansa was his sister for nearly a lifetime, and Jon knows her with an intimacy that Aegon never will. That intimacy has turned curious now. Some days it makes her feel more his sister than she ever did before, the two of them sharing memories of home, Sansa often giving him a fond smile and saying that in his blue jerkin and topknot he looks more like a Stark than ever. Some nights it makes Jon’s blood warm with discomfiting awareness, unbidden thoughts surfacing of her in his brother’s bed just a door down the hallway. Is she soft with him? Is she steely? Does she welcome him with open, eager arms or endure his attentions with grim determination? It is a strange thing to consider. Part of Jon treasures any tiny evidence of Sansa’s defiance of the marriage that was not of her own choosing. Part of him remembers the girl who sang songs of romance and chivalry and thinks something in his heart would die to know that such a girl – a girl made to love and be loved – would find no pleasure in her marriage bed.

Judging by the expression on Aegon’s face as he watches Sansa ride through the streets on a pristine white palfrey, spine drawn up, chin high, and clad only in the shining waves of her hair, he’s experiencing a similar conflict. 

Jon can’t blame her for doing it, not even a little. There’d been something smug in Aegon’s smile at supper the night before, something condescending and indulgent about the way he listened to her arguments for commuting the new tax he’d levied. It was a smile Jon had recognized. The men of the Night’s Watch had smiled at Val that way, when they still thought they had a chance to fuck her. Littlefinger had smiled at Sansa herself that way, when offering her up to Daenerys as the perfect Queen for Aegon. Those smiles had turned angry and ugly when their indulgence wasn’t repaid in a manner they felt proper. Jon had remembered all that when Aegon placed his hand over Sansa’s and laughingly told her that perhaps he would reconsider if she rode naked through the streets in protest. There was lust in his eyes then. A proprietary satisfaction. He’d lifted Sansa’s hand to his lips, entreating her with his hot gaze to retire for the evening with him, an unspoken jest buzzing in the air that she might partake in a different sort of riding, one more to his satisfaction. Had there been no gathered lords at the table with them, he might have made that joke. Had there been no lords, Sansa’s pride might not have felt so stung. Aegon hadn’t seemed to notice the slight purse of her lips, the flicker of scorn that shone in her eyes so briefly that Jon wondered if he’d imagined it.

Aegon hadn’t noticed the undercurrent of something deeper when Sansa cocked one brow, gave him a shallow, pacifying smile, and lightly responded, “Perhaps I will,” much to the amusement of those around them.

No one’s laughing now.

The lust is still in Aegon’s eyes, but it’s joined by disbelief, by anger. By grudging admiration. Jon stands beside him, still his Hand no matter that he’d like to throw him off the wall of the keep at the moment, and watches silently as Sansa guides her mount with invisible movements. Gods, but she is a vision. Jon feels like the worst sort of deviant as his heart speeds in his chest at the sight of her, her long, pale legs arranged with picture-perfect grace over the pommel of her side-saddle, her chin tipped up and to the side as she looks down on her King and husband. She does not sneer at Aegon, but rather regards him with cool challenge, a Queen in every way. The thick, auburn fall of her hair clothes her almost as completely as a shift would, covering her from shoulder to hip and parting over the tops of her thighs to brush the saddle beneath them. To his mortification, Jon suddenly imagines himself fisting his fingers in that hair, sliding his hands beneath it to part those milk-pale thighs and find the sweetness between them with his mouth. He has been too long alone. She is too much of home to him, too much of the belonging he’d always wanted so desperately, a sense of belonging that eludes him here in King’s Landing, no matter that he’s more accepted here as a Targaryen than he ever felt as a Stark. It wasn’t a Targaryen that he’d longed to be. Sansa is what he’d longed to be, Sansa is _home_ , and Jon’s ashamed at how much he wants to bury himself within her and give her home as well in this moment. He’s always been far too drawn by a woman’s fiery defiance.

“My Lord,” she says, and her voice is low, smoother than velvet. There’s something deadly in that voice, and Jon’s heart thrills to it. Sansa Stark is no man’s victim. “Have you seen enough? Or shall I ride a bit longer?”

“You’ve made your point,” Aegon snaps in a tone meant only for her ears. “Now call off this farce.” Miserable confusion is on his face, and for a moment, Jon almost pities him. Sansa does not move, though, nor does the challenge on her face abate. Suddenly Jon knows that she will see this through if she has to ride all the way to the Wall to do it. Fierce pride joins the tangle of emotions in his chest. Lady may be long gone, but Sansa has wolf in her yet, it seems.

“I would have your word first, my Lord.”

The crowd begins to rustle. They may not know of Aegon’s jest the night before, but they can sense the tension in the air. Aegon is caught, quite neatly so.

“I am a man of my word,” he says, managing to sound genial and well-pleased, though Jon knows some resentment must lurk beneath the surface. “And you have it.”

Sansa inclines her head gracefully. She looks so regal, one could almost forget that she’s nude in broad daylight in a crowded public square. “You are as gracious as you are wise, my Lord.” Jon very nearly snorts at that. Gods, but her mind is quicker than lightning. Truly, she is every bit the Queen she’d longed to be when she was still a girl who believed in dreams and songs and faerie tales.

Spurred by only the slightest movement of her hands, her mount swings its head and begins to move. As she passes Jon, she inclines her head and then, stunningly, she winks at him, the gesture so girlish and conspiratorial that Jon can’t help but laugh.

“Of course _you’d_ find this funny,” Aegon grouses, misunderstanding the source of Jon’s mirth. Jon can hear the desire still in his voice, laced with confusion and petulance. For all that Aegon is his elder, there are times when he seems yet a boy.

Jon does not know what will happen in their bed tonight, but he knows he’ll be imagining it when he’s in his own.

 

_ Title from “Godiva” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson _


End file.
